Chapter Thirty-Nine
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Send the letter. Cut the cake. Pass the butter. The best things in life are shared. It takes a holler.
I bake through the night in the Apothakery’s kitchen.
Generations of Frost family memories heat these ovens. It’s where Momaw Frost taught my mom to be a Farewitch. For this particular recipe, this kitchen just makes sense.
I bake six mediocre cakes first, one of which I drop on the floor.
There’s some pillow-screaming at about three a.m. Every neighbor who contributed an ingredient gave me extra, and that generosity saves me.
With the last of Gertha Fudge’s pineapple, I make a seventh and final cake, full of every fervent prayer I’ve ever made.
When the sun rises, I escort my finished hummingbird cake to the hospital. I try to stay awake as I feed my mom a bite at a time. She chews, weakly. Smiles, weakly. Then sleeps, strongly. Carolina promises to call me when she wakes up, then orders me to go home and rest.
So I do. But I don’t end up at the Apothakery.
Knight Manor’s kitchen is buzzing with people.
Silas and Rett and Arna Jean. Everyone who donated an ingredient. No Gertha Fudge, but Ms. Buchanan’s brought her own thin apple cake, and even the church choir is here.
At first, I assume folks came to buy something, but they’re not here for the Farewitch. They’re here for Marigold’s daughter. No one wants to wait alone for news of their mayor.
When word gets around that folks are meeting up and dessert is involved, other neighbors arrive with more apple cakes.
They plop them on top of each other, and soon we’ve got the makings of a proper country apple stack cake.
As the layers grow, the kitchen becomes as full as I’ve ever seen it and Ms. Zeen ensures tea travels alongside the growing conversation.
Somehow, my mom and I, the lonely Farewitches of Foxe Holler, have brought everyone together.
In the familiar warmth of the Manor’s kitchen, I begin to hope that things will be okay. I got used to this place when I wasn’t looking, but fell in love with it when I started. How did I ever drive away? What if I don’t want to leave again?
After a while, I get overwhelmed with the crowd and head outside for air.
The Warlock stands alone on the back veranda, looking out at his gardens.
I shiver, the air cooling as late afternoon turns to evening. Maybe it’s nerves. Why wasn’t I scared to meet this Warlock all those months ago, and now I’m terrified to say hello?
With a steeling breath, I join him at the porch railing. “Gossip is, an anonymous donor has funded the town’s plans to finally rebuild the library.”
His shoulders go taut at my voice but he doesn’t look over. “So I heard. Someone likely realized there’s no point being the wealthiest man in the graveyard.”
I try to smile, but my mind tiptoes back to my mom at the hospital. He clears his throat and my eyes latch on to his stoic profile, greedy for a distraction.
He faces me now, hip braced against the railing, and looks to the bustling kitchen. “Even once the library and church are rebuilt, I think I’ll keep the Manor open. To neighbors, visitors. The house seems tickled with all the activity.”
My heart crams a hundred beats into half a second. I’m—proud. Teaspoon by teaspoon, the chill that followed me from the hospital melts away.
“Ms. Zeen will riot at the mess.”
“It’ll be good for her, too.” Beyond his shoulder, fireflies come to life, skittering in the evening air.
All my nerves are frayed at this point, but I need to ask, before I lose my chance. “During all our research for Lazlo, I read up on the Language of Small Wishes. You told me it doesn’t allow you to grant wishes for family and folks you live with. But that’s not true, is it?”
He stiffens.
“You can’t grant wishes for people you love.”
He takes a sharp breath, and the glow from inside chases some of the shadows from his face. “For the people we love, we have to put in the work. Wishes only get a person so far.”
I’m really hoping the fading evening light will hide my flushed cheeks. “When, ah… when did it stop working around me?”
Maybe he’ll say What do you mean? Let us both pretend and push on with our lives. But then his full attention lands on me, eyes bright and hard, and I know none of this is going to be easy. I swallow, hoping for air, but just find fear. Hope. Both. They taste the same right now.
“When you were in the hospital… When you became sick, I was losing you and I’d only just found you.”
I brace myself against the railing, unsteady. “That feels like ages ago.”
“Feels like minutes for me. Every minute I spend with you feels like a new moment, like I’m learning the world for the first time.”
Oh LordLordLord.
I’m not ready for this conversation. For any of this. How can I appreciate a part of my world opening up while another part is on the brink of collapse? Can’t we go back to our easy repartee, the days when I was the one making him uncomfortable?
All I can muster is: “Thank you for letting me stay here tonight, by the way.”
His brow lowers, his eyes roaming over me. I get a glimpse of the man who kissed me breathless back at the Widow Witch’s cottage.
“Stay as long as you like.”
My heartbeat gives a little shudder at his words, which don’t sound at all as simple as Stay as long as you like. “You can’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that.”
“Elaborate, Ms. Frost.”
“We can talk about this tomorrow.” If tomorrow doesn’t bring bad news and my shattered heart.
His jaw tenses. “Whether tomorrow or the next day, I will be unable to hide that I no longer have any ability to treat you as casually as a neighbor or colleague.”
I nearly squeak. “Then why did you avoid me for a week?”
“I didn’t want to reach out to you with false hope about that recipe, and…”
“And? Elaborate, Mr. Knight.” I haven’t been able to use his real name around him yet.
A ragged breath crawls from his chest. “And I thought you read my letter and still chose to leave.”
Something unfurls within me. No wonder he didn’t try to convince me to stay. He thinks that’s what I wanted. “I didn’t read it until yesterday.”
“And?”
“And,” I huff, “could you not have written a happy letter for once? Can you sign anything fortunately?”
His head tilts. “No.”
Completely deadpan. Ass.
Now that same letter feels like it’s burning right through the front pocket of my apron and into the cavity holding my heart.
“You only gave me that letter because you thought you were going to die. Not because you might live.” To further my point, I yank the letter from my front pocket and shove it in his direction. “I don’t want your name like this.”
A half smile. “Too late. It’s yours.”
I growl in frustration, burying the letter back in my pocket. “Then do it right.”
His smirk returns, but it’s the dangerous kind he was wearing right before he kissed me. He sticks out a hand, accepting my challenge. “Hello. My name is Verne.”
I take it. “Hello, Verne,” I say aloud for the first time. His grip tightens. “I’m Honey.”
We shake.
“I’ve been thinking about you. Your name, I mean.
While I’m working on a cookbook, you could write your own gardener’s grimoire.
Verne’s Ferns: A Guidebook to the Plants of Knight Manor for the Horticulturally Inclined.
I mean, I know you can’t use your name in public, but, you know. Think about it.”
He stares at me with an inscrutable expression, like he can’t decide whether to laugh, kiss me, or put me to bed for the night. A part of me craves all three.
“May I show you something?” he asks abruptly.
Too focused on the static skittering across my hand, all I can do is nod and follow.
Side by side, but never touching, we round a corner into a private grove I’ve never seen before. It’s hiding expansive flower beds, and even I can tell that whatever grows here is special. No, not flower beds. My breath hitches. The beds are full of—
“Herbs, for you,” he says, watching me. “I planted this garden shortly after you arrived.”
Gingerly, I step around the beds, studying the healthy greens—and the smells. Rosemary. Basil. Cilantro. Dill. Tarragon. Mint. Oregano. Parsley. Lavender.
Thyme. I can’t escape it. I’m not sure I want to.
An entire herb garden. For a Farewitch. A garden needs someone to use it. “You planted this months ago?”
“Once I tasted your food.”
“So my food was that good.” Please banter back. He can’t pick now to suffocate his sarcasm and completely flip my worldview inside out.
“You were that good.”
All at once, dusk overtakes our little herb garden. “Verne, I don’t…” I clear my throat, trying to thwart the rising, delicious panic in my gut. Could be another allergic reaction. “I don’t think I can handle any enormous declarations at this current moment in time.”
There. I’ve said it.
Silence tremors between us.
He shakes his head, gaze as pointed as my sharpest knife. “Sweetheart, this garden is only a minuscule measurement of how I feel about you.”
I’m pretty sure I hiccup.
“You can’t say things like that.” My voice is breathless. “If we’re right about what’s happening to my mom, then Farewitches don’t live long. I don’t want you at my funeral when I’m thirty-five. Aren’t you tired of living with curses?”
“You’re not a curse. Quite the opposite.”
I look away from those hazel eyes before I crumble or make reckless promises—
“No matter what happens tomorrow, I planted this so you would stay, Honey.” His voice is low, rough, and rubs against me like a rocky creek bed under bare feet. Grounding. Persistent. “You don’t have to decide now. Or ever. But you always have a place here. An open invitation.”
His words about ruin me, but then he runs a thumb over my bottom lip, and that most assuredly ruins me.
I turn my head to leave the smallest kiss on his palm. “I prefer my invitations to arrive in spooky little black letters.”
Just then, voices pour into the garden, popping the bubble around us.
Arna Jean runs into view.
“It’s Carolina,” she pants, catching her breath. She holds out my cell phone. Glowing and buzzing with a call. “From the hospital.”